


It's A Lovely Feeling

by moonflowers



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Classic Jimmy making an utter twit of himself, Drunk Jimmy, I'm Sorry Molesley, Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Misunderstandings, Second-Hand Embarrassment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-21
Updated: 2015-09-21
Packaged: 2018-04-22 19:01:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4846748
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonflowers/pseuds/moonflowers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jimmy gets squiffy and confesses his feelings for Thomas via a love letter slipped under his bedroom door. Unfortunately, having had a few too many, there's a slight chance he misjudged and got the wrong door. It's Mr Molesley's lucky day.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's A Lovely Feeling

**Author's Note:**

> Based off this prompt : http://leelajoy716.tumblr.com/post/92837799604/irrationalgame-pookiestheone-flippyspoon
> 
> My ~~late~~ contribution for day one of Thommy week. My chosen prompt was 'Person A gets drunk and confesses their love.' Technically I'm cheating - I wrote this ages ago and never posted it, but it fitted the prompt well enough and I thought it may as well go up rather than languish in my documents forever, so I dusted it off and here it is.

Since when had clocks been so _loud?_ The ticking of the small alarm clock on Jimmy’s nightstand seemed as mighty and echoing as the hands of Big Ben, for all they banged against the inside of his head. All he wanted was to drift back to sleep, and escape the monumental headache he could feel hanging heavy behind his eyes and the growing certainty he was going to throw up. What in God’s name had he been drinking last night? Or how much had he been drinking, was probably more the issue. He swallowed, tasting the sourness at the back of his throat that came with too much drink. As he came to terms with the physical horrors of the aftermath of a night at the booze, he began the hazy and uncomfortable process of trying to piece together the events that had led to it. 

He’d been down to the pub, for starters. He hadn’t been much in the mood for it, truth be told, but he had the time off and it wouldn’t do to waste it sitting about at the abbey. Alfred would sometimes come with him, but he’d begged off that evening, the dozy bugger. Of course he’d had the usual banter with the other punters, and with the barmaid that always tipped him a wink. But after the third or fourth pint, the stuffy pub had begun to lose some of its appeal. It had started happening more and more often lately. That is, the last few times he’d taken a trip to the pub, he’d tired of it quickly – solitary visits there weren’t as much fun as they used to be. The best evenings he’d had at the Grantham Arms lately had been the ones that Thomas had deigned to come with him. And once that thought had entered his head, it wouldn’t leave. Stupid as it sounded, he knew he’d be enjoying himself a whole lot more if Thomas was there too. It only made sense that he wanted to spend the evening with his mate rather than a bunch of stupid, boring blokes he didn’t care much for. Thomas made him feel… well he wasn’t quite sure, but he made him feel, which was something. The decision was made then, and he downed the last of his pint and ambled back up to the house. 

Mr Barrow, as Jimmy really should be calling him, had altered greatly in Jimmy’s eyes over the past few months. It had started properly on the day he’d taken Jimmy’s beating for him; not an occasion Jimmy liked to dwell on as a rule, it made him uncomfortable in numerous ways he’d rather not think about. But that action alone hadn’t been enough to change things. It had forced Jimmy to recalculate things, certainly, but it was the weeks following that brought the change, the weeks they’d spent staying up late to chat and read the paper, or to gossip like two old ladies when Jimmy brought up Mr Barrow’s breakfast tray. The times, after the under butler’s face had healed up, that Jimmy’d talk him into a trip to the pub, and they’d have a few drinks and laugh and joke and Mr Barrow would glare at anyone who dared interrupt them. The long and short of it was, Jimmy didn’t want to keep him at arm’s length anymore. He was no longer simply tolerating him, but actually took pleasure in his company. A turn of phrase that his drink-addled mind found both hilarious and scandalous.

So he’d been a little bit tiddly, yes, and though he’d tried to keep it under wraps when he got back to the house, Thomas had probably noticed. He noticed everything. But that didn’t mean he’d refused the few rounds of cards Jimmy suggested before turning in. He’d even produced a bottle of something from the depths of his wardrobe, something that tasted rich and fruity and made Jimmy’s head spin even more. It must have made a mess of Thomas too, though – his guard slipped as they played, and he smiled wider and laughed more freely than he usually did, and the top buttons of his shirt were undone. Jimmy vaguely recalled staring at Thomas’ bared collarbone through the haze of drink. And he looked so lovely as he took a deep drag of his cigarette, cheeks sucked in and hair in his eyes, that Jimmy took another swig from the bottle, and then another, because Thomas was just so… so much, that it hurt. After that, the rest of their card game was pretty dim in his memory. He remembered Thomas hefting him to his feet, gripping him firm under the armpits, and Jimmy could smell that delightful fruity drink on Thomas’ breath and his own, and the smell of Thomas himself, whatever that may be. That was much more important than cards. 

He supposed the purpose of said bodily contact, a thing traditionally avoided between them, had been to relocate Jimmy to his own bed in his own room, as that was where he found himself now, the next morning, wishing very much he’d never been born. Though the admittedly somewhat fuzzy memory of Thomas clumsily patting his head before leaving him to sleep it off went some way to making up for it. But that wasn’t all though… trying in vain to swallow down his nausea, another recollection rose up along with it. 

He’d been trying to write something down, something important, something to do with Thomas… _oh lord no._ Sitting up quickly, though the sudden lurch upright made his stomach roll, he looked to his desk, where, sure enough, crumpled papers marking his failed attempts to get the words down right were littered across the top and on the floorboards. He raised a hand to rub at his temple, in doing so noticing his fingers were blotchy with ink. Shite.

And he couldn’t remember what he wrote, but oh God he knew it was to Thomas and about Thomas, and sure enough when he eased himself down to pick up one of the crumpled sheets and smoothed it out ‘Dear Mr Thomas’ was scrawled across the top. It was followed by something so flowery and in such poor handwriting, that he wasn’t sure which part he should be more embarrassed about. Oh hell. Just when he thought the mortification had reached its peak but still remained blessedly private, he was hit with the very definite memory of standing in front of Thomas’ door in the darkened hallway, getting shakily to his knees to slide the final draft of his poorly thought out note under the door and oh God no he didn’t...

Jimmy managed to drag himself out of bed from under the twisted blankets, squashing down the urge to vomit, and made himself vaguely presentable by doing up the buttons of his shirt that hung open after his failed attempt to get into his pyjamas last night. He avoided looking in the mirror for now. He knew that if he did, vanity would compel him to tidy himself up properly, and there was no time for that just now. For the moment, all that mattered was that he was decent enough to stagger into the hallway, discreetly open Thomas’ door and grab the letter back before he found it. He left his bedroom before he had the time to think better of it, hoping very much Thomas wouldn’t choose the same moment to leave his own room, and catch Jimmy on his knees in front of his door. Unfortunately, the drink had made an early riser of Thomas too, and when Jimmy got to his room, the door was ajar, the man himself already in the bathroom. But there was no note to be seen on the floor. Jimmy tried not to get his hopes up – Thomas surely would have picked it up by now. He had a quick poke about Thomas’ room, barely daring to breathe as he ran his hands over the items on Thomas’ dresser, but the note was nowhere obvious. Thomas wasn’t stupid, of course he’d already hidden it away somewhere. The thought of him even seeing the drunken confession Jimmy had scrawled in the small hours of the morning was mortifying. Jimmy only hoped that Thomas would have the decency not mention it, and leave Jimmy to blissfully pretend it had never happened. As it was, he spent the next half hour tidying himself up in his room, expecting Thomas to saunter in at any moment, Jimmy’s ludicrous note in hand and smug look on his face.

But no such thing happened, and, sighing in despair at the dark circles under his eyes and his slightly lank hair, Jimmy headed downstairs for breakfast. He spent the entire time at the breakfast table half expecting Thomas to whip out the note and crow about it over the toast. Of course he conveniently forgot that Thomas would never be so stupid nor so obvious, not in such a way that would potentially land them both in such massive trouble. But rational thought didn’t seem to be his strong point that morning, and he continued to shoot anxious glances at Mr Barrow over the rim of his tea cup. Despite his worry, breakfast passed as mundanely as it usually did; though Alfred did ask him twice if he was feeling alright – he looked a bit off, apparently. Jimmy’s grimace and lingering hangover as he replied that yes he was fine mind your own business thank you very much probably made his assurances less convincing. 

When the staff and family breakfasts were over with and Jimmy had seen Thomas slink back upstairs, he chanced another quick root around in the under butler’s bedroom in search of his damning note. It had occurred to him, however briefly, that Thomas was very unlikely to make a big deal of it, if Jimmy asked him not to. He’d more likely hand the note back for Jimmy to dispose of, and they’d share an awkward silent agreement not to speak of it again, and go back to how things were. But that didn’t stop the burning humiliation that crawled up his spine and made him shudder when he thought of Thomas reading his confession. He hadn’t even gotten the notion straight in his head yet, so God knows what he’d ended up writing on paper. It was the threat of damaged pride and disrupted status quo that made him go looking through Thomas’ possessions again.  
But though a quick ten minute scramble through Thomas’ desk and wardrobe and under his bed did yield some interesting findings – a small stack of rather romantic and risqué postcards, a pair of cufflinks set with what appeared to be rubies, and a faded birthday card inscribed ‘all my love, Charlie,’ – there was no sign of Jimmy’s own handiwork. Irritated by his failure and a little flustered from the postcards, Jimmy was forced to admit defeat and head downstairs before he was missed.

After an hour spent polishing shoes that weren’t his own and stewing over the whole bloody affair, Jimmy threw down the rag and pulled off his apron, and went in search of the under butler. He stomped off down the hall, accosting Mr Barrow just as he was exiting the kitchen.

“You,” he hissed with a vehemence that surprised him, “we need to talk.”

Mr Barrow merely blinked at him slowly, a thousand and one thoughts moving behind his eyes, and Jimmy was willing to bet an entire months wages his impolite address just now was one of them. “Alright,” he acquiesced, and allowed Jimmy to chivvy him into a more deserted section of corridor. 

“I know you’ve read it,” he said when he was sure they were alone, “you must have. So just have your fun and get it over with, this isn’t fair.”

“What are you on about?” Mr Barrow didn’t look intimidated, as he should do under Jimmy’s ire, but just mildly confused.

“Oh come on,” said Jimmy, poking him hard in the chest. Thomas raised an eyebrow at the unexpected touch. “Don’t pretend you didn’t see it.”

“Jimmy,” said Mr Barrow, with the air of someone talking to a small child, “I really have no idea – “

“The note I put under your door last night,” Jimmy bit out, feeling a flush creep up his neck and spread over his cheeks. “I – I’d had a few.”

“There was no note Jimmy,” said Thomas, still infuriatingly soft, and a bit like Jimmy was touched in the head. “Are you alright?” 

“I – fine, yes.” As the knowledge that Thomas had not in fact read a drunkenly composed confession of Jimmy’s surprisingly deep feelings for him sunk in, Jimmy felt relief wash over him and ebb away all the concerns and frustrations that had been plaguing him through the morning. He must not have slipped the darn thing under Thomas’ door after all – there were enough discarded copies for it to seem credible that Jimmy had simply abandoned his mission and passed out cold. As for the memory of wandering the halls… well, he must just be confusing it with when they first went to Thomas’ room to play cards. “I should get going,” he said when the look on Mr Barrow’s face suggested he was waiting for more of a reply than Jimmy had given. “I’m alright. I promise.” The under butler’s look of concern softened, and he stepped aside to let Jimmy go.

Jimmy was positively giddy with relief for the rest of the afternoon, despite the headache that still throbbed at his temples and the sour heaviness of his tongue that wouldn’t budge. He hadn’t messed things up. He and Mr Barrow could carry on being friends, and he could carry on pretending he didn’t know why he felt breathless every time Mr Barrow said his name. It would be easier for them both, that way. No one would get hurt.

But nothing could last forever, and it seemed Jimmy’s luck was fated to run out that evening after dinner. And of course it was Mr Molesley playing the harbinger of doom. Jimmy should have known it from the moment he sat down, the footman’s usually rather dull face alive with excitement and something akin to smugness. But then, he wasn’t looking at Molesley, was he. 

“Jimmy, you spend a lot of time speaking to the girls – “ Molesley started, and Jimmy saw Mr Barrow cover up a snort by turning it into an unconvincing cough – “I was wondering if any of them had said anything to you. About me, that is.”

“Err, no,” Jimmy said flatly, the conversation already tedious. 

“Oh. I only ask because I found this note put under my door this morning,” he pulled a sheet of folded paper out of his pocket, and Jimmy felt the blood drain from his face at the sight of his own cheap stationary. Bugger. “And I just wondered if you had any idea who it could be from.”

“Right,” he said in a strangled voice, trying his best not to let his face betray the utter terror brewing. It couldn’t have been… it must be some strange coincidence. Yes. Some poor girl had formed an unfortunate attachment to Molesley and couldn’t keep it under wraps any more, yes that must have been it. “I don’t know, I’m afraid.” He saw Mr Carson shoot them a look, shifting in discomfort, ready to step in should their conversation take an unsavoury turn, before turning back to Mrs Hughes. Most of the others seemed engaged in chat or some small task or other, thankfully. Except for Mr Barrow that is. Though his face was hidden behind a newspaper, his stillness and rigid posture made it clear he was listening in. He wasn’t as subtle as he thought – which made two of them, really.

“Maybe it’ll help jog your memory if I tell you some of the things she said.” He cleared his throat. “Listen – “

“No,” Jimmy all but shouted, “I really don’t think – “

“She starts by saying she loves me,” Molesley looked rather chuffed at the thought, “which is a little forward perhaps, but the heart wants what the hearts wants, eh?”

“Right,” said Jimmy weakly, praying this was all some alcohol influenced dream. Mr Barrow’s hands tightened on the newspaper.

“She says I make her feel like a silly girl in a picture,” Molesley continued with a chuckle, “can you imagine? Swooning over the hero.”

Jimmy fought the urge to bang his head on the table. Had he really written that? Good God. Out of the corner of his eye he saw that Mr Barrow had lowered the paper and was frowning slightly, trying to puzzle something out. _Please don’t let him put two and two together…_

“What’s that, Mr Molesley?” said Mrs Patmore as she came in from the kitchen, taking a seat next to Mrs Hughes. Wonderful. More people to witness Jimmy’s humiliation.

“Mr Molesley’s got himself an admirer,” said Alfred helpfully, and Jimmy very much wanted to smack him in the mouth.

“Is that so?” said the cook with some measure of disbelief.

“Yes – I found this note under my door this morning,” said Molesley, and when Jimmy chanced a quick look around the room, it seemed the attention of most of the servants was now turned to Molesley and the note that had never been meant for him. He must’ve forgotten to address it, after all that. Thank God for small mercies. “She goes on to say that my beautiful face haunts her dreams. Can you imagine?”

Mr Carson and Mrs Hughes had one of their little silent exchanges that suggested they knew something had gone awry – Molesley could never be described as hauntingly beautiful, and any idiot could see that. Except for the man himself, apparently. They would probably assume it must be some kind of joke at Mr Molesley’s expense, or so he hoped.

“That’s very romantic,” said Anna, setting down her sewing. “But can you be sure she’d want you to be reading this aloud to us, Mr Molesley? It is rather a private thing.”

Jimmy knew he’d always liked Anna for a reason.

“That did cross my mind,” said Molesley sagely, “but she says here that she thinks of me as her best friend. I’m sure she wouldn’t object.”

 _Well she – I mean I – bloody well do,_ Jimmy thought viciously, though that didn’t stop his face heating up as the soppy words he’d written while thinking of Mr Barrow were read back to the room at large. His jaw clenched as he tried desperately to keep his face blank. 

“Are you alright Jimmy?” said Alfred, tilting his head in concern. “You look a bit hot.”

“I’m fine,” he choked out, but couldn’t stop himself glancing up at Mr Barrow. His face remained impressively passive, but he also had spots of colour high in his cheeks, and his lips quirked up a little like they always did when something was troubling him but it was necessary to hold his tongue. 

“She says she likes watching me work,” continued Mr Molesley, and for God’s sake how much had Jimmy even written? The entire situation had bypassed stupid and was fast approaching insanity. “She says I’m graceful.”

Even Mr Carson couldn’t hold back a snort of disbelief at that. Out of the corner of his eye, Jimmy noticed Bates eyeing Thomas suspiciously. _Oh, you can keep your nose out of it and all._

“Are you sure that note was meant for you?” Thomas said dryly, with a passable attempt at his typical sarcasm. Jimmy looked up at him in panic, silently begging him to keep quiet and not make it even worse.

“Well there’s no names on it, but it was put under my door,” Molesley said with a shrug. “Now, this next part puzzles me a little,” he said, and Jimmy dreaded to think what was coming next, “but she says she’d welcome a kiss from me now after all – “

Jimmy couldn’t keep back the wince and groan of mortification that escaped his lips at that. The sound drew the attention of the servants gathered around the table. Some, thankfully including Mr Carson, just looked at him in confusion. But there were a few, namely Hughes and Patmore, who looked knowingly between him and Mr Barrow, and the Bateses shared a silent exchange of amusement. Perfect. Just bloody wonderful.

“I think that’s quite enough, Mr Molesley,” cut in Carson. _Yes it bloody was._

“Ah yes,” said Molesley, looking somewhat abashed, “right you are Mr Carson.” 

“It was quite sweet though,” said Daisy from where she stood behind Mrs Patmore. There wouldn’t be a soul under the roof who didn’t know about the mysterious letter by morning.

Mr Barrow would be furious with him, for being so careless, and dragging this mess out for everyone to see. Not able to stop himself, Jimmy looked across to him again. But the under butler didn’t look cross at all. He looked rather pleased actually. And not his normal, smug sort of pleased but genuinely happy, as he smiled softly into his teacup. 

“But it must have been somebody in the house, don’t you think?” said Molesley, while those ladies seated close by exchanged secret looks disclosing it was not one of them, “but I’ve no idea how she managed to get it under my door. Whoever she is, she wouldn’t have been able to get into the men’s quarters. She must have had help from one of you. Was it you Jimmy?”

“What?!” Lost as he was in his observation of Mr Barrow, Jimmy had only heard the last part of his question. Oh blimey, had he figured it out?

“He asked if you helped any of the ladies get the note to him.” said Thomas smoothly. 

“No,” said Jimmy, somewhat put out that Thomas seemed to have recovered his composure so quickly while he was still left floundering. “It errm… it wasn’t me.”

“Are you quite sure about that Jimmy?” said Mrs Patmore with a roguish glint in her eye, and Jimmy gaped at her in astonishment, not sure whether to shout or cry or just flee the room.

“That’s what he said, Mrs Patmore,” said Alfred in confusion, as Jimmy’s cheeks got hot with shame again. It couldn’t have been good for his health, to have so much blood keep rushing to his face. “Why would he lie about that?”

“Why indeed,” said the cook, with a last little smile in Mr Barrow’s direction as she stood. “Come on Daisy. We’ve left poor Ivy to sort out the breakfast trays for tomorrow by herself.” Daisy didn’t look all that bothered by this, but followed her into the kitchen all the same.

~

The next day, Jimmy neither sought nor avoided Thomas. His mortification hadn’t dulled since the farce that was Molesley’s reading of his wrongly delivered love letter the evening before, but he still felt so off colour from the drink that he couldn’t find the effort to worry overmuch. Every time he looked up, Thomas was smirking at him. Bastard. But by that evening, he felt more or less normal again. Physically, that is. Mentally was another matter entirely. The girls were clearing the dinner things away, and once again Molesley had brought up his favourite subject – his secret admirer. 

“Perhaps she doesn’t want to be known,” said Anna with thinly veiled exasperation, her smile a little tight as she fended off Mr Molesley’s incessant questioning. 

“Then why would she put it under my door?” he said, shaking his head. “No, my mind’s made up. I must find out who she is.” 

“I wish someone’d write me a love letter,” said Alfred mournfully, as Daisy whisked away the remains of his treacle tart and custard with a lovelorn expression. 

“It’s a lovely feeling,” said Molesley with such sincerity that Jimmy felt a bit queasy again, and went outside for some air.

It was chilly, despite the sunny day they’d had, which was why he found the fact that Thomas was leaning against the wall smoking a little surprising.

“Hello,” Jimmy leant heavily on the wall next to him.

He grinned. “Alright Jimmy?” 

“Fine thanks.” He knew he sounded sulky, but couldn’t be bothered to worry over it.

“Really?”

“No actually, I’m bloody not.”

“Oh?” Jimmy could practically feel his smug smile. “Why’s that then?”

“Sod off.”

They sat in silence for a little while, passing Thomas’ cigarette between them. Buggered if Jimmy was going to buy his own. It was cold enough that he could feel the cold bricks through his livery. His thigh was almost touching Thomas’, and the thought made him tense, unsure whether to shuffle further away or closer. What difference did it make anyway, now Thomas knew.

“Did you mean it?” Thomas said quietly, and oh bollocks here we go.

“Mean what?” said Jimmy blithely, hoping against hope he could talk his way out of it before it got too mortifying. 

“Don’t play stupid Jimmy,” Thomas’ voice was sharp, “I don’t deserve it.”

“I – “ oh sod it. “I meant every bloody word, alright?” Jimmy admitted, looking down at his own hands to avoid Thomas’ face. “Though I don’t think I’d have put it quite like that if I’d been sober…”

“Is that so?” Thomas looked at him, part puzzled, part hopeful, and part trying to cover up both of the previous two. He took the cigarette from where it was burning to nothing between Jimmy’s fingers, and stubbed it out on the brick wall. “Well then,” Thomas straightened up and moved off towards the back door, “you and me have got a few things to talk about then haven’t we.”


End file.
